Dark Morning

I wanted to learn more about the bishop pine,  
conifer native to Point Reyes.  
"Hike among the lanky,  
twisted trunks of the bishop pine on an early morning hike," 
Peaceful, I thought, and signed up.    

Merrill, our guide, arrived late, wore sunglasses 
on the leaden, damp day. 
I have a roster here somewhere, she said, shuffling 
through frayed backpack stuffed 
with unkempt papers, Oakland A's baseball cap, 
large packet of Twizzlers.  

We're okay, her aide, Lisa, said gently. We can start. 
Like a sheepdog, Lisa herded the ten of us  
onto the trail. She noted California wax myrtle in forest understory. 

Blue-green canopy of pine branches overhead 
protected us from morning fog drips.  

I inhaled moist air deep in my lungs,  
glad I didn't shut off my alarm 
and sleep through this hike.  

The morning was too cool yet  
to release the wax myrtle's spicy  
scent, but I anticipated its glory. 

Merrill became one of the group, joined a few of us  
in the rear. She walked gingerly,  
a slight limp. Her faded red sweatshirt  
covered a lot, but not the bluish-black bruise  
on her throat in the shape of long fingers.

My hiking companion reached for Merrill's backpack.  
Let me carry this for you.  
Merrill's lips moved in a silent 
thank you. 

Tears shimmered on her cheeks.  

Published in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Issue #11: The Outsider, 2023